Christmas Decorations

It’s all gone she said. Mom was being truthful – her home, the house that she used to decorate so beautifully, the work that made all of our Christmases so memorable, all gone.  She refused any comfort. She looked it square in the eye – it’s gone and there is nothing to do about it and taking anything from these tables heaped with her past would not help in the least.  She came to my brother’s house yesterday while we all unpacked the boxes of decorations; she softly fingered things, she remembered details, helped to organize and lay things out for everyone to see.

It had all been in boxes for years, since Mom and Dad moved in with my sister and her family. This was the last category of things to distribute, spread out and choose from.  The pieces of furniture, the regular silverware, the piano and wall decorations had been split up and were now living in our separate houses since the move.  Mom had always said “When I leave this house, they are taking me out of here in a box” and we believed her. Eventually she left, without the box and without most of her things, but with Dad to a new way of life.

This was made by one of the kids, I don’t know who…oh and this was from a craft fair I think.  Many of the items she or her mother had made, the needlepoint boxes or crocheted snowflakes or hooked rugs.  There were boxes of plastic green garland that wrapped the railings or draped down the doors.  There were enough wreaths for everyone to take multiples. There were plaster angels and crocheted angels and angels made of sugar starch.  I always loved this she said.  Remember this?  Much was handmade by us as well, or by our children. As a matter of fact, their tree had been decorated for years with only handmade ornaments which were now spread out in a special area.  And then there were gifts for Mom and Dad which had been handmade as well.  An embroidered sampler, heavy glass ashtrays with magazine Christmas pictures pasted to the bottom, ornaments made from coffee filters or Popsicle sticks. And glitter. Now and forever, glitter.

Nobody is kidding nobody here. They weren’t perfect holidays ever. There were nerves and hurt feelings and burnt cookies and flares of anger and jealousy and exhaustion. An inveterate catalog shopper, Mom had dealt with whole shipments which weren’t delivered by Christmas, gifts which came broken or looked entirely different than expected.  The burden of running a house of eleven children was heavy all year, at Christmas it only intensified, the stakes becoming infinitely greater. But year after year there was the laughter, the surprises, the music, the food, the moments of deep gratitude with these decorations around us.

Over on one table sat 20 or 25 of my mother’s collection of Nativity sets. There was the original one that most of us remembered from 50+ years ago and some that had been collected or given to her over the years.  There were small plastic ones too, which we kids brought home to Mom from primary school.  One was made of material that shines in the dark when left under a lamp for awhile. We older girls had a rosary made of that material and it was our favorite thing, one of the few things we all agreed that we would share and take care of.  Those small plastic nativity sets made my heart twist, reminding me of a simpler time with miracles like angels announcing births, rooms suddenly piled with gifts while you slept, and small hands sheltering a shining rosary in the dark.

As we circled the tables, my brothers and sisters and I time traveled together.  Current troubles and disagreements were soothed by memories, but even good memories can surprise and sting. Do you remember? we ask each other over and over again, and too often the answer is no. The things laid bare here have no context, it is 10 years since we Christmased that way in that place with these things watching us from the tree and the table and the walls. I wish we were searching for something that was there. Instead I was searching for something which was missing, impossibly far away and yet somehow triggered so deeply by a small piece of plastic.

Everyone had to shake the bells that used to hang on the back door.  They took us back to the late night Christmas Eves when we shook off sleep and let our bare feet hit the cold floor as we ran into the kitchen to catch a glimpse – he was just here! or to a time when we stood, older and sadly wiser and shook the bells  and slammed the door ourselves as the younger ones came racing in – you just missed him!   I didn’t take the bells. I didn’t want to hear them now. I wanted to walk into Mom’s kitchen, and hear them ring as I closed the door.

I came home in the late afternoon to my apartment which faces east. Out my window stands a high rise with a glass front which reflects the view from the west and I love to watch the sun set.  As the eastern sky darkens, the panel of glass in this building still reflects the vibrant beauty of the autumn evening.  I feel as if I am living in two worlds as I gaze thru the night time darkness on my side of the world to the spectacular beauty of the colors and the sky which is still day time blue as the sun drops.

Fitting for a day I’d spent with a foot in both the present and the past. Working at one level as if we were simply unpacking and packing, lightly making choices about the things of our childhood.  On the other level, feeling that if we all just held our breath we could go back there for a moment.  Or that if we all had the identical memory of the sounds and the smells and the feelings of that time- if our combined efforts could shine enough of a light on our past- it would begin to glow and come mysteriously to life.

Mom was right of course. There is no way to soften the fact that it is all gone.  We can’t live in two worlds; Christmas Past with its ghosts lies behind us.  The trinkets we took to our homes will lose their energy and their heat, and the power to propel us through time.  We are still a family that celebrates together, we create wonderful new memories, and we watch grandchildren and great grandchildren living in the magic of their moments knowing that they will remember. She who decorated that house and surrounded our lives with love is still here and showing us how we must all let go of what is already gone, and learn to live with grace as the past becomes the future.

And the tiny, shine-in-the-dark nativity set sits on my shelf, waiting to shine its light.  

A Very True Story

The last day of a recent trip to New York outside the Carnegie Deli in rush hour, I hail a cab. I tell the driver my destination and get in - at which point the cabbie starts to tell me where he is going to take me. Not how he is going to get me there, but where he is going to leave me.

-I take you to 7th and 34th and you walk one block to 8th street, yes?
-That's not where I'm going.
-It is only one block, you can walk yes? Easy for you.
-That is not where I am going and it is not easy for me.

-Lady it is too busy I cannot take you.

-Then why did you let me get in the car? I don't want to walk, I have bad knees.
-Me too!  Lady me too!

-Uh huh. I didn’t ask you to carry me there, I asked you to drive me there.

-Yes but traffic you see is crazy and I cannot take you there.
-One block?
-Yes, but it is very busy now and will take me 10 minutes to go one block.
-I didn't ask you to get me there by a certain time, I asked you to take me there. 
-Lady it is only one block
-I don't care if it is only one step, it’s not where I want to go.

At this point voices were elevated. He took a breath.

-Lady I am not a bad man, here is my problem…

-I don’t care about your problem, I will obviously have to get out where you leave me but that will be a problem for me and that is what I care about since I am paying you.

A silence.

-Lady, it is like I tell my wife, she is pregnant right? And I tell her, look, you must not complain so much and think about all the negative things – instead think of good thoughts and your feet will not hurt so much and your hormones not bother you, see?

-I cannot believe she let you live.

At this point he busts out laughing.

-Now you sound like my wife!

-Would you take your wife to 8^th Ave? Listen buddy, I got something for you, you ready?

-Yes tell me

-Repeat after me: Darling

-Darling

-I don’t know how you do what you do every day and I am the luckiest man on earth.

-I don’t know how you do what no I try to say this but she says I am faking.

-Uh huh. Don’t ever fake. Let me ask you – ever been pregnant?

-No Lady. No.

-You are gonna drop me where you are gonna drop me but I am gonna make your life easier Mr. 7^th Avenue. Stop trying to solve your wife’s pregnancy ok? It isn’t a problem. It is a condition with issues you cannot possibly understand that ends up with you having a new baby.

Again a silence.

-Now you make me feel bad you see the man who takes the taxi after me if I am late he starts late you see and it will take 10 minutes for me to go one block and he will be 10 minutes late you see?

-Oh yes I see that the man who is next to rent your cab is more important than the lady with the bad knees who is actually in your cab who just gave you the best advice you have ever gotten and probably saved your marriage.

A longer silence.

-Ok Lady I take you I take you to 8^th avenue now, see? I am not a bad man. I take you. 8^th Avenue.

-And buy your wife some flowers.

-Yes Lady, now we are friends, yes?

-Dude, we are besties.

Father's Day

Over 20 years ago, my Dad wrote his eleven children and their families a letter.  (Yes a letter. Not an email.) He wanted no more Father’s Day celebrations.  He saw it as a “stupid Hallmark holiday” and he asked us to please forget about it as far as he was concerned.  He loved us, he knew we loved him, let’s not feel obligated to tell each other so just because some Sunday in June rolls around.

He was serious.  And when Dad is serious, even tho his letter was warm and funny, we listened.

See, when my father believes something, he lives it.  He’s never been a go-along, easy way out kinda guy.  When he commits to something, he sticks it. 

100% Irish, he never wore green on St. Patrick’s Day because if you were REALLY Irish, you didn’t have to show it. 

A strong Catholic, he was never a meek follower.  He “got involved”, which for my father meant leading the way. 

And as a parent, if Dad decided, no amount of pleading, whining, cajoling, crying, arguing or “three act plays” would change his mind.  Once Dad believes he is right, Katie bar the door.  Go pound sand. 

Which is not to say he decided issues in some knee-jerk fashion.  He thinks things out, measures consequences and costs, and prays about the important decisions beforehand. So good luck to you if you think you are bringing new information to the table when challenging him on one of these beliefs.

Brings to mind the Sunday at church when Dad was at the lectern announcing a fund raiser that he was chairing (Dad was in the lectern often, either leading prayers or doing readings or in some other way living his belief that the church was people, not the Vatican, and that people of faith needed to be involved to keep the church intact and relevant) and some rather conservative parishioner had the temerity to stand up and challenge the idea of the fund raiser because it was going to include “gambling”. 

When I say the earth stood still, you have to understand this was in far more conservative times and NOONE had ever stood up in church to object or even question anyone on the altar.  Not too many years before, the altar hadn’t even faced the congregation and the whole service was in Latin. But here was this guy, pretty righteous in his manner, taking on my Dad in front of a Sunday morning crowded Mass. 

My mother and all of us were, as we were every Sunday, in one of the front pews off to the right.  Actually we were probably taking up two of the front pews. There are lots of reasons why we always sat in the same place, but it is interesting when I think about where it was.  Up in front – you bet.  Fully participating, absolutely.  But not in the middle.  Not in the prime attention getting or statement making spots.  To the right.  Out of the way but not out of the picture. 

Anyway, we all froze. This was way out of line and wasn't in anyone's game plan. This made us all afraid.  But, Dad just answered the guy.  He never hesitated, never broke stride, and calmly explained why this made sense.  The guy never knew what hit him.

As time has gone by and Dad has had his Father’s Days free of Hallmark cards and bad ties, I’ve been less ok with the ban. 

As much as Dad never minded leading; the Army troops he was in charge of, the parish he belonged to, the family he spawned, the business he created; he is actually a very private guy who doesn’t enjoy public personal attention. 

But there is another side of Dad.  He loves opportunities. Maybe he was so successful as a salesman all those years because he just loves finding and then thinking about how to take advantage of an opening, how to fix a problem, how to surprise the people he loved with remodeled kitchens, bicycles, or chocolate doughnuts.

Maybe that is why he has always watched the sales flyers and the coupons that come in the mail.  Maybe there will be an opportunity too good to pass up.

Well, for me, that is exactly what Father’s Day represents.  An opportunity.  It isn’t important who gave me the coupon, but I have a great big one that says for this one day a year, it is absolutely ok to risk everything and stand up when you are supposed to be quiet and risk embarrassing Dad by saying how much I love him, how much I respect him, how often I judge my actions by what I think he might say and how more than anything I hope I have made him proud. 

I’m sure he will have a very well-thought out response.  But luckily, I am my father’s daughter.  And this is what I believe.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad, with all my love.

Johnny Boy Would Love This...

Today’s Cool Album of the Day (#842 in the Series) is Johnny Boy Would Love This…A Tribute to John Martyn

There are some artists who open their hearts to us. They are the jewels, the ones that never fail you when you go back to their music. And their songs are the ones that live on, because the beauty of the truth they tell does not die, even when the artist does.

A tribute album is a tricky thing. It always sounds like a good idea, but we all know cases where the end result leaves you wishing the material had been left alone. Bringing too few new ideas to the arrangements can leave us wishing for the original. Too much re-interpretation can actually point out flaws we hadn’t noticed. John Martyn’s music came from such a sacred space within him, from such specific, intimate emotional experiences, it seemed impossible a tribute album would have a chance of lifting it up in a way that would add to his legacy.

Unless.

Unless the artists who participate in the project do so out of their own deep respect and love for the man and his music. Unless they understand that what is required is for them to come from that same space, to open their own hearts. Unless the producer is himself clear about the music’s strengths and challenges, and is determined to trust the magic that lives in these songs to spread to new artists, new audiences.

 

Well, that is exactly what happened. And the title of the tribute Johnny Boy Would Love This…A Tribute to John Martyn couldn’t be more appropriate.




To watch John Martyn perform live was to see a  man in extremes of both joy and pain – sometimes at the same instant. He seemed to be reliving experiences with the audience rather than performing songs. But his distinctive way of letting the words slide together and the gravel in his voice mixed with emotion – sometimes crying, moaning or yelling more than singing – could overwhelm his lyrics and their raw, simple poetry. The power of John’s personality was so present that you didn’t need to know the words to understand his meaning. When an artist is that unique, how do you pay tribute?

What Producer Jim Tullio understood was how these fresh versions would surprise us. The lyrics feel invigorated in the hands of these artists. And such artists! From every corner of the music world they came happily when asked, or happily asked to come, in order to contribute. Robert Smith from the Cure, David Grey, Beth Orton, the late Syd Kitchen, Joe Bonamassa, Sonia Dada and Phil Collins – all felt a deep connection (and many of them a debt) to Martyn’s work and a desire to add their music to his.

It almost seems as if the versions on this double-CD set and Martyn’s original recordings communicate with each other rather than compete. The interpretations are respectful and that firm ground presents a showcase for the creative ideas the musicians brought to the undertaking. An example is “Small Hours” which Martyn recorded with solo guitar and an echoplex, along with Stevie Winwood on synthesizer. They created a world of ambient night noise as an evocative backdrop to the raw entreaty to “Keep on Loving Till Your Love is Gone.” In the tribute, Robert Smith samples that introduction, adding his own electronic vibe and letting his voice and the lyric echo, mirroring the original to a great effect.

Clarence Fountain, one of the original Blind Boys of Alabama and Sam Butler, another alumnus of the group, take on “Glorious Fool”; their voices a perfect fit for the warning, “Half the lies he tells you are not true.”

  John Martyn and Jim Tulio
 

 

In “Head and Heart” John’s trademark picking style added a small sharpness that cut against the beauty of the words. On the tribute, the sweetness is instead accentuated by wind chimes and the whispery, sensual voice of Vashti Bunyan. Both work brilliantly, and both versions have a steady heartbeat. In the original, bongos are beating in the background. Vashti’s version has a muffled bass drum beat that steadily if somewhat ominously propels the song forward even as it anchors it solidly to earth.

In 1990, Tullio was working with Cheryl Wilson on her record which happened to include a cover of “You Can Discover,” when he got a call from Martyn who was in New York performing. Tullio persuaded him to come to Chicago and play on the side. Cheryl’s record was never released, but when the idea for this album came up, Tullio remembered the track, thereby allowing Martyn to perform on his own tribute.

Martyn makes a second appearance on “Anna,” which is based on the same chord structure as “Small Hours” but boasts a different melody and lyric. Martyn had laid down the music for “Anna,” but was never quite satisfied with his vocals, so it too was not released. For the tribute, Tullio had Brendan Campbell sing over the perfect accompaniment, recorded years before.

The Emperors of Wyoming, a band which includes Butch Vig, the world renowned producer of Nirvana’s album Nevermind, contribute a Neil Young type vibe to “Bless the Weather.” Lisa Hannigan’s stunning Celtic interpretation of “Couldn’t Love You More” feels more like collaboration than interpretation.

And then there is the blessing. Martyn’s wish for himself and for us captured for all time by Snow Patrol in “May You Never” with its heartbreakingly simple requests:

“May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold

Won’t you please won’t you please won’t you bear it in mind
Life is a lesson to learn in our time
Won’t you please won’t you please won’t you bear it in mind for me”

 

Snow Patrol adds a full chorus behind the last verses as it builds to a powerful conclusion. When John performed it, the power came from repetition. He sang the refrain over and over, wishing it harder and truer each time, until the audience was simply wrecked. It is true, he would love this. So will you.

Baby Don't You Want to Go?

Today’s Cool Album of Day (#802 in the Series) is Eddie Holstein, Eddie Holstein

When Eddie Holstein sings “I’m goin’ down to Morton Grove, baby do you want to go?” the answer is yes.  And that is just how it is, after all these years and clubs and sing a longs and tributes, Eddie Holstein still makes you want to go.

The slightly fat sound of his free finger picking style on the folk guitar and the weathered but still potent voice takes you back to the days when folk singing was the bomb. Or, against the bomb.  But he isn’t singing strident protest tunes on this set; no full throated, head back sincerity ala Bob Gibson or Joan Baez.

Instead Ed stays in the pocket where he is comfortable and where we want him – singing songs we recognize, ones with lyrics that knock you out with their truth and warmth, songs with love and longing and hope and pain. And occasionally he reminds everyone that anytime he wants to, he can stop the show. And with Eddie Holstein, that’s where you have to watch out.

See, most folk singers back in the day could make you sing along. Hell, you came out because you wanted to sing along, although you acted shy for a verse or two. Eddie can still make audiences sing along, and he also still has the ability to make his audiences choke with laughter. Sometimes at the same time.  Don’t take my word for it. Listen to the live version of “Back in the Saddle” and just see how long it takes for him to get to you. He had me at the third line.  At the “Live at the Earl” Concert at Fitzgeralds a few months ago I thought some of the old folkies were going to need medical attention from laughing so hard at Eddie’s set.

It is true there is something inherently ridiculous about a bunch of city people sitting around singing old cowboy or blues songs. But we love them and so does Eddie. He just can’t help flashing a mirror at us all from time to time so we can appreciate how much fun we are having singing them. When the album opens with “I Love Me” with the Pickin’ Bubs (Maura Lalley and Peggy Browning ) singing “He loves him” you know that he’s still having fun.

Eddie says he was very pleased with how the record came out. “I was a little reluctant to record an album because I’m not touring or anything, but I was really happy to be able to show these arrangements and what I could do.” He teaches guitar now at the Old Town School of Folk Music and still plays the occasional gig.  A few of those gigs make it onto the side, including a great live version of “Done Laid Around” with Jim Craig and Mark Dvorak.  “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” is on it too and if you have never heard Eddie’s classic Vincent Price story, (and even if you have) you need to hear it here.

There are a few other Dylan tunes, “Buckets of Rain” and “If You Gotta Go, Go Now” for example. Eddie says he thinks “they are the most understandable of his tunes, and they’re not whiney.” John Prine’s “A Good Time” also makes an appearance. On these numbers, since you aren’t laughing, Eddie has to break your heart a little. He also includes a few traditional numbers such as “Shake Sugaree” and “12 Gates to the City” with Elaine Moore. A tribute to Big Bill Broonzy recorded live at the Old Town School yields “Tell Me Who’s Been Foolin You?” which is arguably one of the best song titles ever.

Bonnie Koloc, whose voice has somehow defied the years to stay as crystalline and pure as it ever was, duets beautifully with Ed on “Swinging On  A Star” and “Bluebird Hotel.”  (By the way, if you love Koloc like I do, don’t miss her brilliant new album, “Rediscovered”.)  She doesn’t sing Eddie’s “Jazzman” this time, although Eddie says that like all of us he still loves her version from so long ago.  

Instead Ed takes the vocal on his most famous original tune, joined by John Spiegel on dobro and John Abbey on bass. It takes on a new poignancy with its slower tempo and the voice of a man who has obviously tried a trick or two. “It’s not a mournful song;  plaintive but not mournful.”  It’s a great song that has been recorded by many performers over the years.  Eddie loves them all and said it is “the biggest kick when someone else records your song. It was the ultimate dream come true to have Tom Rush record it.”

So, if you spent time on Wells Street or Lincoln Avenue back in the day, and wish you could time travel back there, here’s your ticket. Just like he always did, Eddie makes you wanna go.

Jessica is Going to College!

When Linda was going off to college I wrote her a letter. Today is your party, Jessica, as you leave for college, and even tho you are my niece and not my sister and I never went away to college as you are about to, today I felt like I wanted to write you a letter too.

The older I get, the less I am sure of, and the less advice I try to give. Actually as I think about it, the letter I wrote to her was because I was so scared. She was the first to leave and go away, and as much as our personalities clashed, she was doing something that was terribly frightening to me.

And Jessica, I was the oldest; I don’t know if you know that….I rarely mention it.

Allright, I mention it all the time. But you know what that means, right? Even tho nobody told me that I was responsible for my brothers and sisters, I felt I was. So I guess I thought she needed my advice.

But you are a totally different story. When I look at you I am not frightened for you. You have grown up with the best parts of your mom and dad, and I am so proud to be your aunt. You have your head on straight (do people even say that anymore?) and you make good decisions. You are so smart, and funny and clearly comfortable in your own skin that I am excited for you but not scared.

So no advice for you today Jessica. Go off – do good – enjoy this time of your life. You are going to do great and nothing is going to hold you back. Get outta here you knucklehead!

However, as long as I am writing this I do feel like there might just be a few things I could share that might be helpful…

First of all if you ever need anything don’t hesitate to call me, because whatever you need I will get for you.

Except money. If you need money I think you would be better off going to Jeff or David or somebody. But other stuff. Of course it might be better to call your mom and dad, but it you need anything that your mom and dad or Jeff or David can’t provide, call me ok? Or somebody. Call somebody. Why do you think you have a cell phone anyway? To talk to your friends? You call home, Missy.

And, don’t play any of these choking games I’ve been reading about. You wouldn’t do that anyway. But don’t. Actually no games. Don’t play any games at all. Not even cards or Monopoly. Just study. That is what you are there for, for God’s sake, what the heck are you playing games for anyway? Is that what life is all about for you Miss Rogers? Games? Do you think it will be all fun and games when you get out here in the real world? No, my friend, it will not.

Now it seems obvious from recent family history that you will probably need your appendix taken out at some point. So just go over to the med center and introduce yourself so when you go there in the middle of the night some snowed-in weekend in February they will know who you are.

And no snow blowers. That goes for the whole family. No more snow blowers. Have I made myself clear?

Let’s talk seriously and realistically about drinking for a minute ok? No drinking. Ok that’s covered.

Because here is the thing about drinking. You have one drink and before you know it you are looking like me at the end of Sue’s wedding. Or David’s wedding. I don’t know if you were there. Unfortunately I am not sure what all happened, but there is evidently a picture of me in a cowboy hat I’d like to get back. Anyway the point is once you start drinking you buy a ticket to Hot Messville. And, Jess, that is a bad look for anybody (... and everybody has a camera!)

Have I mentioned no ladders?

You know Jessie-girl, life is like a box of chocolates. I never understood what that meant, but it sounds good. Actually I think life is more like a spider web. I’ve been thinking about them a lot because evidently spiders just LOVE high rises. I have no idea why, but I have 30 or 40 spiders on the outside of my windows. And these are big old dudes with beards, not the itsy bitsy kind. And they are furiously covering the entire windows with their webs.

Here is the weird thing. There are no other bugs up here. So what do they think they are going to catch? Are they doing some artistic wrap of the building? Or is it just my apartment? Are they trying to encase me in here? And they are making so much noise!! It sounds like roaring almost, like war, like….wait, is the Air and Water show today? Anyway, you work hard all your life and you end up in some Twilight Zone episode where the spiders are coming to get you and you can’t find your drink…

You know J-dog, now that I think about it, life is like an Air and Water show going on BEHIND you, so you hear all the roaring and you keep getting distracted and snapping your head to see NOTHING because it is behind you and life is like that with all the distractions that seem important at the time, I mean you could really hurt your neck if you don’t figure out that all those noises are just noises and nobody is going to crash into your building and anyway if they did they would get caught up in the magnificent spider webs that are now covering your windows…

Look Boo, I gotta dip. So let’s review.

Stay in your room except to go to classes, and only talk to teachers. And the people at the med center. And be good to spiders cuz they talk to each other and these guys are clearly really mad at me.

Dirt

A funny thing happened to me as I researched my family tree. I was having lots of luck. I was the center of attention at family reunions with all of the family history I’d found. I was researching church and school records, old family letters and pictures, census rolls and public records in order to dig up all the information I could. And I found lots of interesting information, also known as dirt. I was having a blast.

But just today I remembered a conversation with my sister Diane from some time ago that stopped me in my tracks. She was working on my mother’s family tree. We didn’t have a lot of reliable information, but she wanted to record what she had found and present it to my mom as a surprise. There were a few dates she didn’t have. Could I tell her the date of my divorce?

No. I could not.

Did I know the date? No. I did not.

Would I look it up? No. I would not.

She was exasperated. Why not? She needed the date to make everything complete. Would I think about it? No. I thanked her for calling.

It was just too personal. Five solid years and at least one serious relationship had passed since my divorce. Still. No. I would not even consider it.

I have to face facts. I am obviously a hypocrite. I am delighted to jump into someone else’s life and stir up all manner of dirt in the name of “finding out what their lives were like” but I won’t even give my sister a date that she needs for basic record-keeping.

I’m not trying to keep my divorce a secret. There is no reason to, everyone knows I was married for years and have a wonderful 19-year-old son as a reminder. There aren’t lingering hard feelings. In fact, my ex sometimes shows up for holidays (to my family’s never-ending confusion) and he and I are in constant communication about our son. I’m willing to talk about my marriage and breakup with anyone who asks. In fact, I’ve been known to talk about it to people who have heard the story many times and wouldn’t mind changing the subject once and for all.

And what does a date tell you anyway? Nothing about what really happened, that’s for sure. Nothing about the agonizing years that it took to understand that it needed to end and then to make the move to end it. Nothing about the long painful process of the actual proceedings or about being held captive in a judge’s chambers while she reviewed our financials between taking phone calls and shout outs from people walking by the office. Nothing about how on the day, after it was over, my ex and I ended up in the same elevator, and all I could think about was the day we started. Or about how I went to lunch alone at a diner near the courthouse and called my mother to let her know it was over, like a surgery that had been successful in cutting out the cancer but was only the beginning of the healing.

Giving her the date seemed like giving up control of the story, making it part of the public domain when I wasn’t finished with it yet. It isn’t some funny anecdote; it is a powerfully charged, defining moment in my life. I couldn’t bear to reduce it to a date on a piece of paper where someone might look at it and find it slightly interesting or, worse yet, of no importance whatsoever. It’s water under the bridge, but it is still my bridge.

As my mother says, “You might want to look at that.”

I know. She’s right. I’ve obviously got unfinished business. Frankly, I’m not sure I will ever finish that particular business. Like everything else having to do with the breakup of my marriage, it will take as long as it takes for me to let it go. The dreams and regret and promises and pain are still closer to the surface than I like to admit. It wasn’t until my sister called that I realized how close it still is.

So, I’m thinking about these relatives whose vital statistics I am brandishing as if I created these characters in a novel. What facts have I uncovered that would have caused them pain to reveal? Do I have any right to violate their privacy in the name of “Tracing My Roots”? It’s all very respectable until you realize that I am simply a nosy private detective who happens to be related to these people.

I can’t kid myself. I’m addicted. There is no way I could stop this work now, even if my grandmother came back from the dead and threatened to disown me in the hereafter.

I’m not looking for gossip. I am truly looking for stories about who they were and what life was like. I can be respectful and resist the temptation to jump to conclusions about what I find and how they felt. And maybe I can give them something in return.

My divorce was final on December 20, 1999.

Go ahead, Diane. Add it to the tree.